Old age does have its perks. I don’t have to take off my shoes going through security when I fly. And I’m old enough to say, “Nah, I don’t want to go.” So who’s going to sue me? Best yet is how smells, sounds, and the chronology of things can be shuffled around in my head and create interesting stories. Nothing that makes me some kind of super hero; I leave that for much younger generations. But my memories give me a laugh, and laughter keeps me young. It’s not just a bromide; besides, I prefer my own homebrews and customized potato vodkas.
Let me share a “for instance” since we recently celebrated Mother’s Day. My mom’s long been gone, but mothers can and do leave permanent imprints on their offspring. “Imprint” is a good word. That’s what they did when they re-introduced whooping cranes in Wisconsin. Starting in 2001 they used ultralights as surrogate mothers to lead the transplants to “nesting sites in the south. “Operation Migration” they called it. Think of the Mother’s Day celebration – pilots standing on one leg all night with their heads tucked under a wing of the plane.
Old enough and you get a jingle-jangle of memories triggered by sounds and smells. Often the particulars may get switched around. Like the cranky neighbor puzzle – three neighbors, three mailboxes where they don’t want to cross paths. Who remembers? It was in the Sunday comics 70 years ago and hasn’t made it to the internet yet. The particulars would come back if I could see the picture again.
The memories started when I took the bus downtown to go to the museum. On the way home, an older woman got on the bus, hair set and every hair shellacked in place. She must have just come from the salon since the spray keeping her hair in place was strong. I could smell it as soon as she got on the bus. I’m sitting against the window in the first pair of seats facing forward and, just my luck, she takes the seat directly in front of me, facing in. I had to pull my leg back in from where it was extended. I was tempted to move but I was afraid it would be obvious and rude and my mother taught me to have manners. I could survive the twenty-minute ride home. The hair smell was what I remember from when I was a kid. Every two weeks my mother would come home from the “beauty parlor” proud of her wash and set. Same strong smell. Made me sick then and still does.
Worse yet, my dearly departed wife started having “washes and sets” when she was 50. Said she was old enough to celebrate and become stylish. “Time to grow up, Honey. We’re no longer hippies cutting each other’s hair. It makes me feel special and we can afford this once a month.” And then she reminded me that professional women she knows go to the hair salon every week if not more often. When I said that the hair spray made me short of breath, she said, “No problem, I’ll shampoo before going to bed.” But the smell followed her around the house all evening. I was smart enough not to say anything.
And now again on the bus I was stuck. I closed my eyes, tried meditating, and breathed slowly in and out by mouth. Take orally not like the warnings on boxes of suppositories. If I didn’t say it before, I will now: “Old age ain’t easy.”
It wasn’t easy, and fifteen minutes later, my eyes started to tear and then itch. So maybe I do have an allergy to those hair sprays. I had to squint and almost missed my stop. But I made it. Took a couple of steps and backed up to the nearest lamppost. Smart enough to wiggle back and forth as if I had to scratch my back in case anyone was looking. Deep breathing for a couple of minutes to clear my head and then I continued on to my apartment.
Sold the house five years after Dorothy died. I have a two-bedroom flat near the old state normal school, which is now a regular college with a couple of graduate programs. Free classes for seniors. May as well keep my mind sharp – sharp jingle-jangle is a lot better than the clunk-clunk alternative. New hearing aids make all the difference. “Old age ain’t…”
I got home in time for Happy Hour, happy hour being whenever I say it is. House rules. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and a handful of nuts. Thought I’d ruminate over the Imax film I saw earlier that afternoon in the museum about the oceans. I grew up on the Atlantic, been years since I was back to the coast. Old age has some perks, you can stay where you want.
Halfway through the bottle I caught myself cawing like a seagull. When I was a kid I did that walking along the surf. The movie was a nature film shot in a small marina in some back bay along the coast. At one point they lowered a camera along one of the pilings looking at all the critters. I remember the smell of the creosote on the new pilings. Strong. Tar-like. Sometimes when they patch the streets here the smell takes me back, then, the gulls and terns calling when they spot something good to eat.
I held the bottle up to the light. It was empty and I was hungry. In the kitchen I dropped the bottle into the recycling basket and put a frozen dinner in the microwave. Memories. I smiled and stuck a post-it on the refrigerator door to buy fresh fish next time I shop.
My mother used to fry flounder in butter, squeeze a little lemon, and then a sprinkle of black pepper. The taste is filed in my back brain.
Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. He was a homebrewer for more than 50 years and runs whitewater rivers on the foam that's left. His essays appear online in havokjournal.com and articles in shepherdexpress.com.
Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.
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